Take care
by Simplysheree
Summary: F!CourierX Boone. Being trapped in a safe house forces realisations and revelations for the duo. M for later chapters.


**Dedicated to Cheyenne, who's heart is so big it was broken in the last chapter of my New Vegas novelisation and who is so kind that very often only she stands between my writing career and that dusty shelf!  
**

**WARNING! Pure fluff! **

* * *

The Mojave: Dahlia had once heard a soldier say that patrolling the Mojave almost made you wish for a nuclear winter and right about now, she'd say they were wrong. Outside it would nice and balmy: in this underground death trap of a "safe-house" it was like a freezer. The cold was unbearable, but not quite as bad as the foul mood Boone seemed to be completely trapped in. Of course both the heat and Boone would be more bearable if they weren't stuck in this freezing coffin: hemmed in by deathclaws and waiting for the generator raise the temperature.

Dahlia rolled onto her side and put her cheek in her palm,

"You ok big guy?" She asked across the few feet that separated their beds,

"Cold." He grunted, sour face sweetening a little and, just for a second, she felt a little bad for what she was about to do.

"Just what I was thinking," She singsonged before jumping out of her bed and into his, almost relishing his grunt of surprise. "So budge over; I want some pillow."

"Get out." He spat with surprising venom, she pulled at his muscular arm until he turned to her, face set hard as granite.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She felt her brows draw down, but smiled anyway and cuddled into his back, "You grudge a friend some heat?" She tickled his ribs, hearing him huff with involuntary laughter and feeling the muscles in his broad back ripple as he shifted away from her. Relentless, as ever, she moved to him and cheekily snaked her hands up under her shirt to tickle his belly button, never betting on the reaction she got.

Boone jumped up, yelping at the innocent contact as if she had burned him.

"What?" She gasped, bolting up and out of the bed, shivering in the frigid air, "What's wrong?" Those big, mournful eyes that were so rarely on show regarded her with utter disbelief, as if she couldn't possibly be so dense. He snorted and tried to walk past her, but she side-stepped into his path and put up bit her hands, bracing them against his chest, "Boone, enough. I'm sick of this mood you're in," He growled something inarticulate, but she overrode him, "No, Boone! We're in this together, remember?" He sighed and looked away from her, "I just don't know why you're so angry with me..." She could almost sense him crumbling: he never could stay mad for too long, "I am sorry, you know, for upsetting you, even if I'm not sure what I've done." This seemed to be the wrong thing to say: he practically exploded,

"Are you fucking serious?" He shook his head, "How can you not know?"

"Know what?" Dahlia felt real guilt and panic take over, "What have I done?"  
"It's what you _do_, constantly!" He snarled and spun away from her, "It's..." He trailed off and tried to get by her again, laughing when she stepped into his path once more, "It's this," He motioned to her, "This...just _this!_" He tried to push his way past her, but was waylaid by her once more. She, for her part, was unsuccessful in stopping the momentum of his body and, together, they fell to the freezing floor, knocking over a glass bottle of purified water on the way down. Dahlia yelped as she felt slicing pains in her lower back and arms. "Shit!" He barked, jumping up and shaking his head as he stormed back to his bed, stopping when he realised that she was no longer following him, but still lying on her back, gasping. "Lia?" He frowned and padded back to her.

The pain was needling and insistent, without thinking, she extended her arms to him in a silent plea for help and saw a frisson of...something cross his features. He stooped and lifted her as gently as if she were a newborn, cursing when he felt the blood on his hands, and cradled her to his chest, as close to his hammering heart as possible. While waiting for him to return with the medical kit, Dahlia thought about the way he had looked at her just a few minutes before; turning the expression this way and that, unable to figure it out. When he did return, he carefully picked the glass from her arms, cleaned the wounds and stitched her up quick as magic. However, when it came time to tend her back, he hesitated, hands shaking as he peeled the blood sodden material of her sleeping shorts from her and shifted it so that it rested under the curve of her ass. His breathing became erratic and he dawdled more than necessary. After some time, she realised he was nervous; Dahlia looked back over her shoulder at him, grimacing at the scars and pink stretch marks on her body, the side-effects of fluctuating food supply and war. It was as if he was trying to tend the wounds without looking at them. Then, with some dismay, she realised that she was going to have a half moon scar on her right cheek and snorted with laughter.

His eyes flicked to her: wide and wild and a little guilty and, for the first time, it hit her; how she must have looked to him before he realised she was hurt. Lying on the ground in nothing but a thin vest and shorts, with her arms opened as if beckoning him. Moreover, she realised what the look on his face had been: hope. She turned away from him and let him work unwatched, feeling oddly guilty, as if seeing through his hard built façade was some kind of violation. When he was done, he sighed and muttered,

"I'll get you clean shorts."

"I don't have any." She almost blurted, he raised his brows, "I haven't washed the others yet..."

"Well..." He drew the word out, "You can have a pair of mine if you want, you might need to pull the cords tight though." He threw her a spare pair of old, grey sleeping shorts with ties. With a new modesty, she tried to change without letting him see too much: something she'd never really bothered to do before because, well, it was just _him_. Without ceremony, he climbed into the bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her, "I'll get out when I'm sure you wont pass out from cold and blood loss." He said, half joke, half appeasement,

"I'd rather you didn't." She felt him tense, freeze and wait. Then, as if his mind had settled with the idea, he relaxed and pulled her just a little closer,

"I'm sorry." He murmured, "For being so angry with you...it wasn't your fault."

"No...it was, a little." She tried to turn, gasping as her stitches pulled and throbbed, but she pushed on until she was facing him and let out a hum of laughter, "This is the first time I can remember being eye to eye with you.

He was pressed tight against her, throbbing a little, he coughed and tried to shift away,

"Its ok." Dahlia smiled, her nose tip brushing his gently, marvelling at how dark his eyes really were, at how the faint emergency lights cast a silver that was akin to moonlight. How intense his gaze was, she thought, like some kind of computer, or hive mind: gathering everything from her expression, body language and voice, trying desperately to make sense of her actions. Tentatively, as if frightened, he leaned in and brushed his lips against her,

"Lia?" He whispered, she nudged his nose with hers, "I-..." She couldn't have said precisely when the kiss started, only that it was seamless. His hands were like butterflies on her skin, fluttering at her sides and back, never grabbing or squeezing, never settling. She took his hand and pressed it to her ribs, under her left breast: his breathing hitched just a little,

"You're hearts so faint." He whispered softly, as if she were seconds from fading under his grip, he looked up at her, "You make me afraid...you're so small...what if I can't take care of you?"

"Then I'll take care of you." She smiled and guided his head to rest on her chest, his head cradled in the sanctuary of her arms. Boone seemed to relax into her and, suddenly, it was as if all the tension had gone from him: he sagged and let her hold him.

The warm liquid on her chest was the first sign something was wrong,

"Why are you crying, Boone?" She squeezed his broad shoulders,

"I feel so guilty, Lia." He was sobbing a little, quietly, but insistently, "I couldn't protect them and now I'm dragging you down. I can't protect you! If I can't do that, what good am I?"

"First things first," She said firmly, "I think you could protect me, if it was really needed." She kissed his forehead, "But you don't have to...secondly, you're lots of good." She raised his head, "You can love me... if you want to." She added a little nervously. It was as if that permission was what he'd been waiting for; his eyes fused with some kind of purpose and he surged forward and kissed her again,

"I do... I have for-" He gasped in his spare breaths, "so long...I just felt so-"

"Guilty?" She stroked his jaw with her thumb, he nodded and kissed her hand once, twice three times before pulling her to him, reversing their position. His heartbeat was so strong, so deep and steady it lulled her to sleep for a moment and, when she opened her eyes blearily, there he was a again, but this time he smiled. She returned it sheepishly,

"Sorry.."

"Its fine." She kissed her once, very softly and patted her hair, "Go back to sleep, twinkle, plenty of time."


End file.
